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The Blessing of Society Printable Version PRINTABLE VERSION
by Andy Carloff, United States Sep 2, 2005
Human Rights , Culture   Opinions

  


What of Hope?

Running through the Ghetto. Fleeing from the scene of a crime. It was just my turn was all. I had shoplifted well over $100 worth of merchandise from a store. The alarm went off; I took one look back, and ran. Just a young punk caught up in this society. In some nights from that moment, I would look desperately for one lover, and ask that she would spend some time with me, because all I wanted was warm flesh and the stars. So that maybe we can drink to the morning, and tell each other what happened to us as children that still give us nightmares, and maybe those midnight screams will stop. We were afraid to speak our minds in a society where independence is shunned, but we had the courage to trust how we felt. We had the boldness to trust that our friends would respond to our happy memories with smiles, our sad ones with kindness -- and those terrible predictions of dying alone were received with heart-felt promises of family for life. I walked up to a girl I barely knew and asked her if I could kiss her. She gave me an awkward look, but then said "yes, but only here," pointing to her cheek. I did, and then I gave her some avocadoes that she said she loved. I only gave them to her after I kissed her because I didn't want her to say yes for that reason, and even if she said no, I would have given them to her.

What of Life?

College parties and nights you think you won't ever be able to sleep. Noise, volume, increase; I have class in less than three hours. Oh, well... It seems like nobody here cares that by the end of tonight, American Imperialism will be responsible for another 20,000 children starving to death. The point of conversation, of meeting members of the opposite sex for matters of impressments and orgasm, it seems the point of these discussions is music, television, and other forms of mass media. Everyone likes the same artists. If they don't, they have a sort of patriotic hate towards them, as though the others threaten their own musicians. Among this clashing of social indigestion, I feel like an outcast, the black sheep of a family that comprises 8,000 students. Because when I read Percy Bysshe Shelley, I felt something more than words -- when I watched Stanley Kubrick, I saw something more than images -- and when I looked upon the artwork of any given artist, I see something more than just paper given the compliment of paint. So it seems that I detest the American culture, the heart of their definition of "creativity," and so I detest all those values that allowed them to love such shallow, apathetic, and ignorant artworks. I may see them as shallow and heartless for their interest in artists, musicians, and poets whom have no value, no depth, but alas, I always see them as shallow and heartless for these interests when they live in a nation responsible for hundreds of millions of deaths.

What of Misery?

I kept tightening my jacket and my clothes. The seventeen degree temperature had gotten to me. A hardwood floor and a sheet ("blanket") was all I had. I kept tightening. Finally, with a heart that understood the meaning of cold, I passed out. But it last for only several hours and I woke up sleep deprived and with misery. That's what I had to face as a homeless gutter, as a homeless kid on the streets, with no future, and no past. We listened to unpopular music, made up our own poems, and gave the unobserved walls our own artwork. We made a culture out of homelessness, a life out of our misery, a society out of outcasts and dissidents. We took everything that was held for granted by the privileged class, and destroyed it. We based our lives on nothing but contempt for the fact that come sunrise; we would be in prison or dead. Every night, we made a promise to ourselves, that we would never give into a society that loved beauty more than emotion -- to a society that would be more concerned with the wealth of their superstars than the starvation of their children. As the memories of friends rolled back in the form of dreams, my body kept decreasing in temperature. I woke up cold. There is no way to describe it. Brushing your hand past your stomach, I feel the bitterest cold. And somewhere far away, I'm sure that someone said a prayer that their favorite movie star wins the Academy Awards. Thank you, Jesus.

What of Truth?

I drank myself into the worst intoxication. Next morning, I would find myself in a pool of vomit, but that would be next morning. For now, I was forgetting where I was, at university with frat mates. Kids who thought they were punks. I hated every thread of their soul. I put on some music, some Against Me! As the rhythm went through my body, it felt like everything else did too. Chugging vodka, just make it so I can't see. Now I was in a land where I had to be inebriated to be happy. I can remember a special girl and that whenever I was with her I didn't feel the need to drink - I wanted to appreciate her with the full awareness of my senses. She was every girl I loved. There were still nights filled with drugs and those substances existed there just because they complimented life. Struggling through the crowd of people, not caring about anything, I just wanted to get fucked up. That was the vibe these people gave off. The kid next to me said, "See, you should love parties -- it's all about getting pussy," and the other one said, "Aw, dude, come on, get more shit-faced." I was living a lie here, at this university. And it hurt so badly, because I still loved my real family, related through love, not blood.







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Andy Carloff


Punkerslut (or Andy Carloff) has traveled all across the United States and has experienced American life in the urban centers, as a homeless squatter and as a blue-collar, working-class laborer. Since high school and early development, he has composed a variety of ideas on education, politics, and economy. His positions are ultra-leftist: politically an Anarchist, economically a Socialist, and culturally a Syndicalist. His writings are available through his website: http://www.punkerslut.com
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